Love Alters Not Read Free Page A

terrifying certainty that she was not alone.
    Her heart seemed to stop beating. She stood motionless in the pitchy darkness, longing to run, yet with her feet having seemingly taken root. Another gust blew the curtains over the pump and she could hear them flapping about. The window must stand wide! Gradually, she detected the sound of heavy breathing. Perhaps, if she fainted, he would not cut her throat. But she was too stiff with fear to faint. “Piers!” she screamed silently. But even had her vocal chords obeyed her will, Piers was now halfway to London.
    By the glare of distant lightning, she saw the faint gleam of Cook’s meat chopper. She made a grab for it as a muffled and incoherent mumbling apprised her of the fact that the intruder was definitely male, and probably intoxicated. She swung the chopper high, but almost dropped it with fright when a violent sneeze was roared from only a few paces distant. Somehow, the plebeian sound reassured her a little.
    â€œWh-Who’s … th-there?” she quavered. There came a sound of shuffling movements and she added in a near shriek, “Stay back! I am armed!”
    â€œM-Miss Dimity?”
    The voice was vaguely familiar. At least he knew her. Still clutching the chopper, she said, “Yes. Who are you?”
    â€œSamuels, miss. Lord Horatio’s head groom.”
    Inexpressibly relieved, she gulped, “Oh! If you but knew how you startled me!” She put down the chopper and groped her way to the window. Raindrops sprinkled her face as she closed the casement. She called, “There’s a tinder box on the mantel by the stove.”
    She heard him fumbling. He awoke a flame, and she crossed to re-light her candle and held it up, peering at him.
    Samuels, a sturdy man in his late thirties, usually very neat of person, was barely recognizable. His hat was gone; his wig, a sodden mass, straggled untidily about his face; his clothing was soaked and muddy, and he shook violently, his teeth chattering as he eyed her in apparent anguish.
    Fear knifed through her. “Dear, oh dear! Whatever is it? No—first, come and sit down, poor soul. I’ll wake the servants and get you some dry clothing.”
    â€œNo!” He croaked the word, swayed, and groped drunkenly for the table.
    Dimity ran to pull out a chair and guide his sagging form into it.
    â€œYour brother. Mr. Peregrine … Please, miss—call him.”
    â€œI cannot. He is ill.” She started for the door, only to again be checked by his feeble demand that she not summon help.
    â€œI must get back,” he gasped, shivering. “’Tis … If I…” he broke into a racking spell of coughing, and sagged over the table, white and spent.
    Dimity hurried to feel his forehead. It was hot and dry, although he shivered convulsively. Again, he mumbled a request for Peregrine, and she promised soothingly to call her brother if he did as she bade him. She managed to get him to his feet. He leaned on her heavily, and she guided him into Cook’s room beyond the pantry. He unfastened his dripping cloak, then all but fell onto the bed. Dimity pulled off his boots, and at last had him under the covers.
    Slightly winded, she knelt beside him. “Now,” she said urgently, “tell me quickly, Samuels. Is it Lord Horatio?”
    The groom moaned and muttered distractedly, but at last seemed to acknowledge his own helplessness. “Your brothers, miss,” he said hoarsely. “They fought for the king…”
    â€œThey know Glendenning is in sympathy with the Jacobites,” she put in, trying to control her impatience. “What has happened to his lordship?”
    He bit his lip in an agony of indecision. “He’ll have my ears for involving you … but … Gawd! I don’t know what to do for the best.”
    Yearning to strangle him, she patted his hand kindly. “You have done your best. Have you